Tea and Biscuits
by potahtopotato
Summary: "It's pouring outside, and Simon is completely soaked, from the tips of his wings to the end of his tail. He wants a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit. He wants a hot shower. He wants, Simon thinks as he slams open the door and Baz doesn't so much as say hello, a boyfriend who isn't a complete arsehole."


Baz is sitting on the couch reading by the time Simon gets back from work. His feet are propped on the coffee table, and he's spread out in that faux elegant way he has, taking up an entire room without moving an inch.

It's pouring outside, and Simon is dripping - he's completely soaked, from the tips of his wings to the end of his tail. He wants a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit. He wants a hot shower. He wants, Simon thinks as he slams open the door and Baz doesn't so much as say hello, a boyfriend who isn't a complete arsehole.

Simon stands in the doorway of their flat for a moment. He's almost shaking, suddenly, with how angry he is, which is a surprise because on the way home all he felt was miserable.

"Hi," Baz says, finally deigning to glance up at him.

Simon glares at him, and Baz raises an eyebrow. Casually. Lazily. God, Simon hates him.

"Something wrong?"

"My tail almost got run over by a bus," Simon says, "and my wings hit five separate umbrellas on the way home."

"Huh," Baz drawls.

 _Huh?_

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Baz says. "Shall I apologize for every inconvenience that the world has caused you?"

And all Simon wanted was a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit and a hug, and he's being reminded all over again that they're Not Like That. That they never have been that kind of couple, and they never will be, and is it really so hard to say "oh no, poor you"? The irritation flares into hurt as Baz, apparently finding nothing interesting in Simon, turns his attention back to the book.

Simon, who's still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room because he doesn't want to get the couch wet, needs Baz to react so that he won't be the only one worked up over nothing.

"Well, it's kind of your fault."

"Pardon?"

"All I'm saying is that if you were halfway decent at making these things invisible and untouchable, I wouldn't have this problem."

Baz closes the book and places it ever so carefully on the table, which Simon counts as a victory. "Sorry, I must have missed the part where this is somehow my responsibility."

Simon can feel a drop of water trickling down his back. He grits his teeth.

"Well, who else is supposed to do it? I feel like enough of a freak already, no need to remind me that I don't have magic anymore."

"As if you could've done it when you _had_ magic," Baz clearly doesn't say. The intent is conveyed well enough through a snort, and then he freezes and brings his attention back to Simon.

"What did you call yourself?"

Ah, so that got a reaction, Simon thinks.

"What else do you call someone with _wings and a tail_?"

Baz's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you're trying to say here, but please try and remember that you're talking to your boyfriend, who just so happens to be a vampire."

"That's totally different!"

"Oh, yeah? How so?"

Simon isn't quite sure why he's suddenly on the defensive; it's a familiar feeling, and years of arguing with Baz at least ensure that he isn't caught off guard.

"Vampires are -" he's about to say _normal_ , but he stops himself at the last minute. "At least you're not literally the only vampire that's ever existed. There are other people like you."

"You're kidding," Baz says. He's sat up by this point, having dropped all pretenses of nonchalance. "You have got to be kidding. Simon, I drink _blood_ to survive. I have fangs and weirdly pale skin and an aversion to crosses. I'm - my kind are literal monsters." Baz shakes his head and leans back again. "You're basically human with some extra bits. If anyone's a freak around here, it's me." He smirks. "Haven't thought of it that way, have you?"

Simon has not, in fact, thought of it that way. His righteous anger seems more and more misplaced by the moment, and now he's cold, wet, hungry, and embarrassed.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says at length.

Baz smiles at him, his first genuine smile of the night, and jumps up from the couch. "I'll make tea," he says. "I bought a pack of those chocolate biscuits you like on the way back from uni, I can get those out."

Baz is still an arsehole, Simon assures himself later. He just happens to be that sort of arsehole that's understanding and wonderful and who knows Simon probably better than Simon knows himself. A very special type of arsehole.


End file.
